


holy redemption

by tamquams



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Ronan Compliant Language, Song: Queen of the Night (Hey Violet), Songfic, Underage Drinking, adam pov, blue is only there for like a second, post TRK/pre CDTH, probably canon compliant but if it isn't don't come for me, they are literally always angsty because i am projecting onto them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquams/pseuds/tamquams
Summary: Ronan was still shaky, and Adam was tired and his bones were sore, and Ronan’s mouth tasted of nightwash, and Adam’s clothes were wet, but for just a second, it didn’t matter. For a second, they were just two boys in love, kissing sweetly in the golden glow of a farmhouse bathroom’s lighting, and everything was okay.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 34
Kudos: 234





	holy redemption

**Author's Note:**

> howdy!! i hope you are all doing well and staying safe!! this took me way longer than it should have, but thank you to @clawsandbeak on tumblr for showing me Queen of the Night by Hey Violet, which is THE pynch anthem!! i hope you all enjoy :)

_I've bandaged your bruises_

_You've held back my hair_

_Who'd've known when this started_

_That we'd end up here?_

_But you reach out and touch me_

_Say my name like a prayer_

_All my friends say you're dangerous_

_But I don't fucking care_

“Parrish.”

Adam did not look up. He _could_ not. Because if he looked up, he would see Ronan in the doorway, shaved head leaning against the frame, neck stretched wide open and vulnerable, painted blue and purple from a pair of hands. Adam’s hands, the demon’s hands, it was all the same to him. 

“Parrish.”

He ground his teeth and stared at the sink in front of him with such ferocity he wouldn’t have been surprised to burst a blood vessel. The water pouring out of the faucet was scalding, hot enough to release steam and coat the mirror in a sheen of white. It burned his hands, as did the soap, but Adam kept scrubbing. There was no more dirt or grime in the lines of his palms and the blood was gone from beneath his nails, but he could not bring himself to stop.

“Adam.” 

Ronan’s voice was both softer and more insistent. Adam looked up, not high enough to take in the boy’s marred neck, but enough of a movement to acknowledge Ronan’s presence, at least. Ronan seemed to take this as an invitation and stepped over the threshold, closing the bathroom door behind him quietly as he approached Adam. Adam stepped back instinctively.

“Adam,” Ronan repeated, his voice hardly audible over the sound of rushing water. He did not take another step, which Adam was grateful for, but he did reach out one hand, slow and steady, as if Adam were a scared animal instead of his best friend. Which was, all things considered, mostly accurate.

“Ronan,” was all Adam could say in reply, even as he took another step back. In the tiny bathroom of 300 Fox Way, this was as far backwards as he could move, and he felt the back of his legs hit the edge of the bathtub. Ronan stood directly between him and the door, and some small part of him felt trapped, wanted to dart around Ronan and bolt out of the room, but the rational part of his brain told Adam to sit. So he sat.

For several long moments, Ronan did not move, nor did he say anything. Adam still refused to look anywhere above Ronan’s elbows, but he could feel the taller boy staring at him, analyzing him, dissecting him. Trying to figure out what to do or say, how to make it better. They both knew it was impossible, but ‘impossible’ was not a phrase that fit into Ronan’s vocabulary the same way it did for others. Adam’s _impossible_ was Ronan’s normal Tuesday night.

Ronan grabbed a clean cloth, wet it, and then turned off the faucet.

“Adam,” he said once more, taking a small step forward so that he was almost touching Adam. Adam’s breath hitched, but he did not flinch away, even when Ronan slowly sank to his knees and looked up at him with an intensity that very nearly hurt. Finally, Adam was forced to look at his neck.

It was a mess of blues and purples, yellows and browns — darkest at the center, where the clear shapes of thumbs pressed against the trachea. Impressions in the shapes of fingers spanned across each side, and Adam suppressed a gag as he remembered what Ronan’s skin felt like beneath his, shaking and choking for breath. Ronan’s iceberg eyes wide and helpless, wet with tears. Ronan’s lips parted in a wordless plea.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Adam asked before he even realized he was speaking.

Ronan’s face remained carefully neutral. “It wasn’t you.”

Adam scoffed. “That’s not what I asked.”

Ronan swallowed, clearly uncomfortable, but he did not look away. “I couldn’t hurt you.”

A wave of nausea overwhelmed Adam momentarily. He blinked, trying to clear his head, and clicked his teeth. “I was _killing_ you, Ronan—” His voice cracked, a broken sob escaped his lips. “You didn’t even…”

Ronan took one of Adam’s hands in his own and turned it over, palm-down, to look at his knuckles. They were still tender and bleeding, and Ronan pressed the wet cloth to them very gently. “It wasn’t you,” he said again, his voice fiercer than his touch. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Adam swallowed his protest — he _was_ Robert Parrish’s son, who knew what he was capable of? — and said, instead, “I’m sorry.”

Ronan’s expressionless facade cracked; he frowned, brows furrowed, at Adam’s hand. “Don’t,” he muttered, shaking his head. He held pressure on the cloth and slid his other hand underneath Adam’s, so their palms were touching. 

“But I am,” whispered Adam, twining his shaky fingers with Ronan’s steady ones. His cheeks were burning. “I am so, so, _so_ —”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Ronan snapped, heatless. “Please. Don’t.”

Adam sighed. “Then what am I supposed to say?” he asked, tired. Ronan slowly lifted the towel from his knuckles and stretched one arm out, opening the cabinet underneath the sink and pulling out a box: a first-aid kit. How he knew that was there, Adam wasn’t sure. Ronan opened the kit and pulled out a roll of gauze.

“You don’t _have_ to say anything,” Ronan said, wrapping the gauze around Adam’s hand slowly. He let his fingers explore the lines and curves of Adam’s hand as he went, and Adam repressed a shudder. “I know that it wasn’t you.”

As Ronan took Adam’s other hand and pressed the cloth against the second set of bloody knuckles, Adam bit his lip. “But they were _my_ hands.” His voice was miserable.

Ronan just shook his head again, fitting their palms together once more. “Nah,” he said simply, in a tone that conveyed he was done arguing. He slowly lifted the cloth and wrapped the remaining gauze around Adam’s knuckles, taping it when he was done. Slowly, his eyes on Adam’s, he pressed a closed-mouth kiss to the bandaged knuckles. Then he stood.

“Wait,” said Adam, unthinking. He stood as well, blinked up at Ronan a few times, then stepped off to the side. “Sit.” It was taking a serious effort to keep his voice steady. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ronan sat down on the side of the tub.

Adam got another clean cloth, making a mental note to buy a new set of washcloths for Fox Way, and sat down on the lid of the toilet to look at Ronan. There were still trails of black sludge beneath his nostrils and his ears, dirt smudged over the sharp edges and hollows of his face. Some blood, too, and Adam swallowed hard as he tried to stop himself from wondering _is that mine or his?_ He pressed his lips into a thin line and raised the cloth to Ronan’s face.

It was hard to clean away the grime of the day while maintaining a gentle touch, but Adam did not have it in him to be rough, so he took his time. Neither boy spoke; Ronan kept his piercing gaze on Adam, and Adam kept his worried eyes on the cloth in his hands, and when he was finally done, Ronan’s face was pink but clean.

“Thanks,” Ronan breathed, and it seemed so impossible and ridiculous that Adam could not stop himself from laughing. For a heartbeat, Ronan looked confused, but then he was joining in, and soon they were leaning against each other and laughing hysterically. Ronan had his forehead pressed against Adam’s shoulder and Adam was wiping away a tear when the door opened.

“Oh,” Blue said quietly, obviously amused. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Ronan tensed slightly against Adam, but Adam just wrapped an arm loosely around him and shook his head at Blue. “You’re fine,” he chuckled, and Ronan relaxed again, burrowing into Adam’s neck. “Do you need something?”

Blue studied them for a moment, a small, private smile on her face, then blinked as her brain processed his words. “Uh, just a couple washcloths.” She reached toward the shelf stacked with clean rags and grabbed them all, then backed out of the room. “I’ll, um, I’ll leave you to it, then.” The door clicked shut.

“She’s gonna tell everyone,” Ronan mumbled against Adam’s collarbone.

Adam pressed his cheek against the top of Ronan’s head, letting the short, coarse hair chafe his skin. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” said Ronan. He nuzzled against Adam’s face. “Does it bother you?”

Without hesitation, Adam said, “No, it doesn’t.”

He could feel Ronan grin against his skin.

_When the night goes quiet_

_And we're up in your room_

_And you're kissin' my fingers_

_And I kiss your tattoos_

_I could lay in bed with you and talk shit forever_

_If this is all a dream, wake me up never_

_Swear to God, cross my heart, no one does it better_

Adam Parrish was tipsy.

It was a strange thing to be tipsy, he thought. He had never really in his life seen somebody be tipsy or buzzed — alcohol was a binary thing in the Parrish household, a person was drunk or they were sober, there were no in-betweens. When Ronan drank, he went zero to sixty in a heartbeat, sober and sober and sober until _wham!_ , he was hammered. Theoretically, Adam knew that there had to be some sort of work-up to getting drunk, but he had never actually _seen_ it. 

But now, he was ninety-nine percent sure that he was tipsy. “I’m tipsy,” he said, just to taste the words on his tongue, give himself a moment to decide if they truly fit.

“Yeah, no shit,” said Ronan, but his tone was not malicious. They were both sitting on a couch, too close to be considered platonic by even the most naive Aglionby boys, but just in case somebody still didn’t get the memo, Ronan also had his arm around Adam’s shoulder, and his left ankle was hooked with Adam’s right.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Adam asked, letting his head fall back against Ronan’s bicep.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ronan repeated mockingly, slurring all the ‘s’s exaggeratedly. “Dude, you’re only, like, two shots in. You’re embarrassing me.”

Adam harrumphed, scowling at the ceiling. He had exclusively been drinking over-sweetened, neon-colored jell-o shots, because the taste of beer was absolutely nauseating, and he was pretty damn sure that whatever they put in shots was pretty strong. Also, it was _five_ shots, not two.

“Do I embarrass you?” Adam asked, suddenly, needlessly, earnestly. Ronan turned to him, a quippy comeback on the tip of his tongue, and then frowned when he spotted the look on Adam’s face.

“Wait, are you serious?”

Adam, in an effort to backtrack, said lamely, “No, I’m Adam.” Ronan pinched his arm.

“Parrish. Come on. You don’t really think you _embarrass_ me, do you?” 

Eyes trained carefully on the ceiling, Adam gave half a shrug. “Of course not,” he lied.

Ronan tugged him in closer. “Oh, come on. Really?” he sighed, rearranging their positions until Adam’s head was on his shoulder. “Why the fuck would you think that?”

Adam did not answer. He did not want to answer, at risk of making a fool of himself, so instead he pushed off against Ronan’s chest and stood. Stars danced in his vision for a moment, but they vanished just as quickly as they had appeared. “I’m gonna get another drink,” he said.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” suggested Ronan, also standing. “It’s getting late. Maybe we should head home, Parrish.”

“Hm,” Adam hummed, thinking. On the one hand, he knew that agreeing to leave and getting in the Beemer would essentially trap him in a confined space with Ronan for the rest of the night, forcing him to explain himself, possibly resulting in an absolute blowout.

On the other hand, he really wanted to go home. Well, to the Barns. But wasn’t that basically _home_ these days anyway?

“Alright,” he said, and Ronan threw an arm around his waist and guided him out of Litchfield House. 

In a way, it was a strange experience to slide into the passenger seat of the BMW, buckle up with his left hand. Usually, when they left a party Gansey had coerced them into attending, Ronan was the drunk one and Adam was the designated driver — the loss of control that accompanied inebriation was both wonderful and vastly unpleasant. Adam fumbled for the seatbelt, buckling himself in with slightly more aggression than was necessary.

“You good?” Ronan asked, turning the key in the ignition. It was a pointless question, and they both knew it, but he had to ask anyway.

With a snort, Adam turned toward the window. Ronan recognized the way he turned his bad ear toward him, a silent message that Adam did not want to have the conversation Ronan was about to launch into, but it didn’t stop him. It never did.

“What did you mean,” said Ronan, eyes very carefully set on the road, “when you asked if you embarrass me?”

Adam sighed deeply, pressed his forehead against the cool glass for a second, and then turned in his seat to better face his boyfriend. “I didn’t mean anything,” he lied. His voice was hoarse and tired. “It was a joke. We were joking.”

“No, I was joking. You were serious.”

“You don’t get to just tell me when I’m being serious, Lynch. I think I know myself better than you do.”

“Do you, though?” Ronan snapped, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

If Ronan was zero-to-sixty when it came to drinking, Adam was zero-to-sixty when it came to anger. Something snapped inside of him, and Adam sneered. “Screw this. I’m not doing this tonight.” Without thinking, he unhooked his seatbelt and started pawing at the door handle, pulling on it vainly. 

Ronan shot him an irritated glance. “What are you gonna do? Jump out and walk?”

Adam figured out the lock and clicked it open. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” He pushed the door open. Ronan slammed on the brakes.

“Jesus fuck, Parrish!” he snarled, wrapping his hand around Adam’s arm and pulling hard. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Let go,” Adam said, trying to pull away, but his attempt was less than half-hearted. He stilled in his seat but left the door open. A cool breeze blew into the vehicle. “Let me go, Lynch.”

Ronan’s grip loosened, but he did not let go. “Not a chance,” he growled, checking his mirrors and then putting the Beemer in park. With his free hand, he leaned over Adam and slammed the door, then punched the lock down. “Am I taking you to St. Agnes or the Barnes?”

Adam blinked. Ronan’s hand was still wrapped around his bicep. “The Barns,” he said, as if it were obvious, and there was visible relief on Ronan’s face as he slowly let go and began to drive again.

They were quiet the rest of the way to Singer’s Falls, both simmering angrily in their respective seats. The tension in the vehicle was building toward a crescendo, and Adam was not sure if he was the conductor, a member of the orchestra, or somebody sitting helplessly in the audience.

Finally, the asphalt turned to gravel and then to dirt, and Ronan was taking them down the driveway at sixty miles an hour, kicking up clouds of dust in every direction. His headlights cut through the haze just enough to tell him when to pull a hard turn, spinning out dramatically before finally roaring to a stop in his usual parking spot. The Hondayota, dirty and ugly and held together by duct tape and sheer willpower, sat a few feet away, awaiting Adam’s return.

Ronan didn’t say a word as he unbuckled his seatbelt and slid out of the driver’s seat, leaving his keys in the car. He did not glance back at Adam as he slammed the car door and headed toward the house, but he did spare a glance in his boyfriend’s direction when he finally reached the bottom porch step. “Do you need help?” he called out, voice dangerously neutral.

Adam, who had just closed the car door, shook his head. “‘M fine,” he said defiantly, putting conscious effort into the task of walking in a straight line. He snapped his eyes up to meet Ronan’s and immediately regretted it; yes, Ronan was angry, and yes, Ronan was going to pick a fight, but Ronan also looked absolutely _heartbroken_ by the fact that Adam could barely walk and he wasn’t sure if he could help without setting Adam off.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when Adam would have turned right around, locked himself in his car, and stayed there until he was sober enough to drive. A time when Ronan would offer help and Adam would shove it back in his face, disappear for days, and work extra shifts until Ronan showed up at Boyd’s with a dream object and half an apology. A time when Adam’s pride ruled his relationship.

But he had grown.

He had not grown enough to outright say _you can help me_ — he wasn’t sure he would ever reach that point — but enough so that he could hold out a hand and level Ronan with an honest, open, vulnerable look.

Ronan was at his side in a second, an arm around his waist, supporting Adam a bit more than was strictly necessary. There was a small voice in the back of Adam’s head, like always, whispering ugly things like _you always need to be carried_ and _just once don’t you want to do something for yourself?_ But there was another voice, a louder voice, maybe Ronan’s voice, saying _it’s okay, Parrish_.

Actually, it _was_ Ronan’s voice, soft in his good ear. “It’s okay, Parrish, I got you.” They walked up the steps, Ronan unlocked the door, and then they were in the darkness of the entryway, Ronan reaching around to flip a lightswitch. Adam could have moved away, but he didn’t.

“Let’s go to bed,” Ronan sighed, leading him through the house and up the stairs. Adam could still feel Ronan’s anger, radiating off his skin like a fever, pulling the muscles in his shoulders tight and rigid. One way or another, this conversation was going to happen. He probably didn’t want to be drunk for it, but, well, sometimes it was best to rip the band-aid off.

“Just say it,” Adam mumbled as they crossed over the threshold of Ronan’s room. It was dark and cold and quiet, the lights turned off and the windows wide open. Adam suppressed a shiver. He sat on the edge of the bed as Ronan turned on a lamp, basking the room in a dim yellow glow. “You’re just gonna be mad till we talk about it. So let’s talk about it.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the closed door, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s you who seemed to have something to say, Parrish,” he said through thin lips. “Maybe you’d like to go first.”

It was a cop-out and they both knew it. Adam untied his shoes and toed them off one at a time, his eyes on Ronan. “I said what I had to say,” he said evenly, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off. He dropped it on the floor beside his sneakers. “Now’s your turn.”

Ronan watched with analytical curiosity as Adam stood and stepped out of his jeans, then tossed his shirt into the pile of his clothes and climbed under the blanket. “You sure, Parrish?” he said in a rough voice. “We’re not doing eighty on the interstate. There’s no car to jump out of.”

Adam didn’t even try to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Just get in bed so we can talk about it.” His head fell back against the pillow with a soft _thump_. 

Across the room, Ronan exhaled loudly and began to move, a rustling sound telling Adam that his boyfriend was undressing. After a minute, the mattress shifted as Ronan moved into his line of sight and crawled in beside him, although he did not lie down; he leaned back against the headboard, folded his hands in his lap, and turned to Adam with poorly-masked impatience.

Adam looked back, sighed, and then sat up as well. “Okay, so just say it,” he said again, his tone clipped. Ronan’s jaw twitched.

“Why the hell do you think I’m _embarrassed_ by you?” 

Adam leaned his head against the headboard. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid,” he muttered.

Ronan snorted. “Obviously. But I want to hear it anyway.”

He sighed. “Fine. I think you’re embarrassed by me because you’re rich and hot and bad-ass and I’m your poor, scrawny, nerdy boyfriend.” The words all came out in one breath, tumbling over each other in their rushed attempt to leave Adam’s mouth. He felt his face turning pink against his will.

Ronan, to his credit, did not laugh — although Adam rather wished he would. Instead, his mouth fell open, lips forming a small ‘o,’ and his brows furrowed as if he were being presented with an impossible math problem rather than an impossible boyfriend. For one brief, staggering moment, Ronan Lynch was truly speechless.

And then, he recovered. “Parrish, you have got to be fucking kidding me.” He swallowed hard, shook his head, and scoffed loudly. “I know _you_ think of yourself like that, which is bullshit enough, but do you really think _I_ think that, too?”

And, well, no. Honestly, not really. Yes, Adam thought that about himself, and yes, he supposed a lot of other people thought that about him, but… not Ronan.

Never Ronan.

He sighed, deeply, and knocked his head against the headboard. “No,” he admitted, his eyes trained on the ceiling. “No, I don’t think you think that at all.”

He felt more than saw Ronan turn to face him. “Then why did you say it?”

There was no easy answer. There was never an easy answer, to be fair, but this situation, this _question_ specifically, were particularly difficult. It was not difficult to know the answer; the difficulty was in the admission.

“I…” Adam began, running his restless fingers through his hair. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Ronan. “I’m so fucked up. And I’m scared I’m always going to be this fucked up. This insecurity, it isn’t a- a- a conscious thing, okay? It’s, like, on an instinctual level. I don't know how to stop it. I’m so fucked up, Ronan, and I’m sorry.”

Ronan had been very calm and quiet for the entire soliloquy, but at the last three syllables, his eyes flashed. “Don’t,” he snapped, although Adam was more than aware that the anger was not meant for him. “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to be sorry about how you feel, okay? I don’t _want_ you to be sorry about how you feel. I just want you to say it. I want to _know_.”

Adam swallowed audibly. “I’m just — Ronan, I’m so fucked —”

“ _We_ ,” said Ronan gruffly. He reached out and took Adam’s hands gingerly in his, brought them to his lips. “ _We_ are so fucked.” Adam’s eyelids fluttered shut as Ronan pressed soft kisses to his knuckles.

A small laugh burst out of Adam, but he kept his eyes pressed shut. “You’re such a romantic,” he said, his voice overflowing with fondness. “God, who would have guessed that Ronan Lynch was such a sap?”

Ronan laughed, too, a breathy noise against Adam’s fingertips. “‘M not a romantic,” he mumbled, but his words were directly counteracted by the way he nuzzled his nose against Adam’s knuckles. “‘M a badass. I’m big and tough and scary. I’m a monster.”

With a snort, Adam removed one of his hands from Ronan’s grasp. “You’re a monster _and_ a romantic,” he amended, using his free hand to trace the outline of his boyfriend’s bicep. “Now come here.” He started to pull Ronan toward him.

Ronan, however, was unmovable. “You’re drunk,” he said matter-of-factly, tapping his index finger twice against Adam’s temple. “Can’t have sex when you’re drunk.”

Adam pursed his lips. This was not a new rule, but it was new for him to be on this side of it. “Well, can we at least make out when I’m drunk?”

Ronan arched an eyebrow as if to say _You made the rules, what do you think?_ Out loud, he said, “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.”

“Who the hell decided all of this?”

“It’s consent one-oh-one, Parrish.”

Adam frowned. “Yeah. Fine. I know. Alright. Whatever. Are there rules against letting your drunk boyfriend be the big spoon, too?”

Ronan grinned. “None that I know of,” he said before immediately scooting down till he was laying on his side with his back to Adam. Adam shifted and came up behind him, slotting their bodies together in the comfortable, natural way they always fit. He was about to say something sappy, the type of comment that could only be said alone with Ronan in the dark, when Ronan opened his mouth to say something else.

“Tad Carruthers is such a fucking tool.”

Which, yeah. They had established that already.

“Oh?” was all Adam could think to say.

“We could not have been more obviously dating, I mean, you were practically sitting on my lap all fucking night, but then, as soon as I leave you alone, he starts hitting on you? Jesus Christ, I wasn’t even out of earshot yet.”

Adam frowned. “He was hitting on me?”

Underneath where his arm was draped across Ronan’s stomach, he felt Ronan breathe out half a laugh. “God, you’re more oblivious than he is.”

“I’m not oblivious,” protested Adam, pinching Ronan’s side just to feel him squirm a little. “I mean, I know he likes me. And I knew _you_ liked me. So, I wouldn’t say I’m _oblivious_ , per se.”

“ _Per se_ ,” Ronan repeated mockingly. He swatted lazily at Adam’s hand, setting his own down on top of it to still it, and continued. “Well, you were oblivious tonight, at least, because he was fucking flirting with you. Like, hardcore. The way he was looking at you made _me_ feel sleezy.”

“Pshaw,” said Adam, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. “I don’t think it was that bad.”

“It was. It was really that bad. It was, like, like, like he was giving you an eyejob or something.”

Adam couldn’t help himself — he burst out laughing. “An _eyejob_? What the hell, Lynch?”

Ronan was shaking with laughter as well. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” huffed Adam, smiling despite himself. He pressed his forehead against Ronan’s nape. “No, I really don’t.”

“Hm. Well. Whatever, then. I’m going to sleep.”

“Okay,” said Adam, breathing in the comforting scent of expensive shampoo and fresh air and _Ronan_. He kissed a particularly clawlike jut of Ronan’s tattoo just to feel him sigh.

“Goodnight,” Ronan breathed.

Adam smiled softly against the back of his neck. “Goodnight, Ronan.”

_'Cause there's something about it that brings me to life_

_Yeah, I know all the consequences, I don't mind_

_This holy redemption tears us in two_

_But I can't turn my back to you_

Ronan was not in bed when Adam woke up.

This was not an entirely uncommon occurrence; sometimes, Adam would wake up in the early hours of the morning to an empty bed and the knowledge that Ronan was out doing farm chores. Sometimes, Adam would wake up in the early hours of the morning to an empty bed and the knowledge that Ronan had dreamt up something that required removal from the bedroom. 

But sometimes, Adam would wake up in the early hours of the morning to an empty bed and a sinking feeling in his stomach.

It was mid-morning, the angle of the sun assaulting the curtains too high to be any earlier than nine, and the bedroom door was ajar. This was the first sign of trouble: Ronan Lynch did not leave doors open, he slammed them closed with pleasure. And, if he were trying to move without waking Adam, he closed them softly and precariously, with the sort of delicacy that one usually imagined being used to diffuse a bomb. Simply put, an open bedroom door spelled trouble.

Adam sat up slowly, blinking his eyes in an attempt to adjust to the strange lighting. Most of the room was dark and shadowy, but there were long strips of golden morning sunlight laid out across the bed and the carpet, illuminating the random items strewn across the floor: shoes and socks, belts and shirts… 

Adam’s eyes landed on a dark, wet streak near the doorway that certainly had not been there the night before.

He felt his heart shatter in his chest. _Ronan_ , he thought. _Oh, Ronan. No._ Slowly, bracing himself, he turned to look at Ronan’s side of the bed.

Black sludge. _Everywhere._

It was streaked across the pillow, the sheets, the blanket. Palm prints and fingerprints, Ronan’s panic still a tangible thing in the room — Adam swallowed the bile that was working its way up his throat and darted out of bed.

“Ronan.” There were black streaks leading in a clear path through the door, down the narrow hallway, down the stairs. “Ronan!” Adam’s voice was a hoarse plea, a beg, a prayer. His fingers traced over a dark smudge on the wall of the downstairs hallway and tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. “ _Ronan!_ ”

The door to the downstairs washroom was open a few inches. A black handprint sat right at Adam’s eye-level, so pronounced it struck him as deliberate. The bathroom light was on, painting a yellow streak across the wood flooring of the hallway, and the sound of running water was uncharacteristically peaceful in his good ear.

His heart was still in his throat, however, as Adam slowly pushed the door open. He was immediately assaulted by the warm spray of steam, the entire room humid and hazy from where the shower curtain was wide open. Ronan was leaning against the wall on the far side of the shower, fully clothed, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged. 

“Ronan,” said Adam. Ronan did not open his eyes. Adam’s fight-or-flight instincts were begging him to run. He took a step forward. “Ronan,” he said again, and Ronan’s eyelids fluttered, but he still did not look up. Adam could hear his pulse thundering in his head. “Ronan.”

Finally, Ronan’s head tilted up. His eyes, normally knife-sharp, were hazy and unfocused and rimmed with black. There were dark grey teartracks staining his face, and sludge was still slowly oozing from his nose and ears. His hands, his wrists, the upper half of his shirt — it was all smeared with black.

“Adam,” Ronan said, his voice unsteady. It was obvious that he remained upright only by the grace of God. “I’m… sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Adam wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction until he was so far into the woods that nothing would ever bother him again. He wanted to sit Ronan down and clean him up and bring him back to bed.

So he did.

“Don’t,” he said softly as another apology queued up on Ronan’s lips. He approached Ronan slowly, like he was a frightened animal that might run or bite, but Ronan did neither. He watched woozily as Adam stepped into the shower, slowly gripped the hem of his shirt. “Lift your arms,” said Adam. He did. Adam pulled the shirt off and tossed it to the floor.

“Now these,” he said, tugging Ronan’s boxers down his legs, and Ronan barely managed to step out of them without falling over. Adam left one hand at Ronan’s hip as he reached down to grab the boxers and throw them down on top of the soiled shirt outside of the tub. When he stood up straight, still holding Ronan steady, Ronan fixed him with a look so unguarded and vulnerable that it nearly hurt to meet.

“It’s okay,” Adam heard himself saying as he guided Ronan into a sitting position on the floor of the shower. Ronan just stared at him. “I’ve got you, Lynch.” A dark tear dripped down his cheek. “Ronan. I’ve got you.” Ronan nodded, a sloppy, disjointed movement that made Adam’s bottom lip wobble.

Adam reached out of the shower toward the shelf and grabbed a clean washcloth, then held it underneath the showerhead until it was wet and warm. He wrung the cloth out and brought it to Ronan’s chest, where the sticky black mire had seeped through the shirt and stained his skin, and rubbed gently, leaving his chest pink and raw but clean. “I wish you had woken me,” he admonished quietly, soothingly. “I want you to wake me up when this happens, Ronan. I want to know. I want to help.”

Ronan, the crown of his shorn head pressed against the tile wall, blinked slowly. “Don’t want you to worry,” he muttered, and Adam saw that his teeth were stained grey. “‘M okay.”

“Ronan,” Adam said, softly, painfully, prayerfully. Ronan met his gaze. “I love you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Ronan swallowed, and when he opened his mouth, his inhale was shallow and broken. “You should go,” he said. “You need to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Adam scrubbed softly at his stomach, his shoulders, his arms. “I’m going to take care of you. Let me take care of you.”

Slowly, with obvious difficulty, Ronan circled Adam’s wrist with his fingers and pushed it away. “Parrish.” His lips were thin. “You should go. I’m serious.”

Adam furrowed his brows, but he didn’t move except to lean back on his heels, grinding his teeth. “Do you _want_ me to go?”

“No,” murmured Ronan, honestly. “But _you_ want to go.”

“I don’t,” Adam said. He realized after the words left his lips that they were completely true. “I want to help you.”

“You don’t want to go _right now_. But you want to go later. You want to go, and not come back.”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t a fair thing to bring up, not when Adam was on his knees on the shower floor, and Ronan was bleeding black, and everything was going nicely for once in Adam’s entire fucking life. It wasn’t fair. Adam’s jaw twitched. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t even _true_.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said, a bit angrier than he had intended. He tried to school his tone. “You don’t get to throw that in my face. Especially not right now.”

“I’m not throwing anything anywhere,” Ronan objected, his own anger surfacing. “I’m just saying, fuck, Parrish, if you don’t leave _now_ , you probably never will.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that you _love_ me, which is a bad enough idea as it is, but now there’s this, and if it doesn’t get better, fuck, will you be able to leave at all?”

“No.”

They both froze.

He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even meant to think it. The answer was supposed to be _yes_. _Yes_ , I’ll drive away and leave you here in a puddle of black sludge. _Yes_ , I’ll go to college and not spare a backward glance. _Yes_ , I’ll stay the fuck away from Virginia for the rest of my goddamned life. _Yes_ , I’ll be able to leave you when it’s time. 

But the answer was not _yes_. It was a hard, resounding, _no_.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Ronan snapped, releasing Adam’s wrist and raising both of his hands as if in surrender. “Go. Now. I’m serious. Get the fuck out of my house.”

“No,” said Adam, his voice fierce. “I just told you, no, I can’t leave. I’m not leaving.”

“You have to! You have to go, you have to get out, you have to make something of yourself! That’s what it’s always been about, right? The three jobs, Aglionby, it’s always been about getting the fuck outta dodge. You’ve been killing yourself for it. You’re not giving that up.” Ronan’s strength seemed to be returning to him; he shoved himself into a standing position, shakily stepped out of the shower. Adam followed swiftly.

“I’m not giving _you_ up, either,” he said with startling ferocity. “Shit, it doesn’t have to be either-or, Ronan. I can defer for a year, or—”

“Jesus fuck, Parrish! No, you can’t! You can’t fucking defer, or take a gap year, or whatever the fuck you wanna call it! I won’t fucking let you!” Ronan grabbed another cloth and wet it before turning the shower off, and he scrubbed it across his face roughly, not meeting Adam’s eyes. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

Adam clenched his hands into fists, then slowly unclenched them. “Give me that,” he bit out, grabbing the cloth to dab it more gently at the coagulated black sludge. Ronan allowed it, although his compliance seemed more instinctual than anything. He continued to glower at Adam even as Adam wiped away his tears. 

“I don’t…” Adam’s voice was softer than it had been. “I’m not going to argue with you right now. I’m going to help you, and we can talk about it later.” Ronan opened his mouth. “Not up for discussion.”

It was a band-aid solution, if that — there would be plenty more arguments, possibly even later that day, and it was unlikely that either of them would be completely happy with any end result. Compromises were like that.

“I love you,” Ronan breathed, and Adam smiled despite himself. He wiped at the corner of Ronan’s mouth with the cloth.

“You don’t have to feel guilty about that,” said Adam, because Ronan looked almost pained. “I like that you love me. I love you, too.”

“But you’re leaving.” Neither of them acknowledged the way that Ronan’s voice cracked on the last word; it was already hard enough.

Adam looked pointedly at where he rubbed the cloth at Ronan’s jawline. “And I’m coming back,” he said, so quietly that Ronan might have missed it.

“You’re what?”

Ronan had not missed it.

“I’m coming back,” Adam repeated, more forcefully this time. “I… God, you’re gonna try and argue with me again. I used to want to leave and never come back because I had no _reason_ to come back.” He swallowed. “Now, I have a reason to come back, and I _want_ to.”

Ronan blinked once, twice, three times. It occurred to Adam that his eyes were clearer, and the nightwash had stopped flowing. “You’re right,” Ronan murmured. “We are gonna argue about it.” Adam opened his mouth, but Ronan shook his head. “Later.” And then he kissed him.

Ronan was still shaky, and Adam was tired and his bones were sore, and Ronan’s mouth tasted of nightwash, and Adam’s clothes were wet, but for just a second, it didn’t matter. For a second, they were just two boys in love, kissing sweetly in the golden glow of a farmhouse bathroom’s lighting, and everything was okay.

_Wearin' your t-shirt, I'm queen of the night_

_One hand on the wheel, and one hand on my thigh_

_And I know it sounds crazy, but babe I am too_

Adam was not asleep, but he was not really awake, either.

He was somewhat conscious, aware enough to feel the bed shift and hear something that might be the roll of thunder in the distance, but he was also still in the throes of a dream — not a dream but a nightmare — and unable to move his extremities. 

“Parrish,” a voice was saying, either in his dreamscape or in his bed. “Adam. Wake up.” It was Ronan’s voice, strangely disembodied from the Ronan in front of him, the Ronan in danger, the Ronan dying, and _oh_. It was not Dream Ronan who was speaking to him. It was Real Ronan. He pushed at the edges of his nightmare in a vain attempt to locate the exit.

Dreaming for Adam was not like dreaming for Ronan. Ronan was a king, even in the worst of his dreams, even in his nightmares — he could find the door, he could create something else to face the bad guy, he could escape by the skin of his teeth. Adam’s nightmares were too real to be recognized as dreams. They did not have clearly-marked entrances and exits. He could not make decisions or wake himself up. It was like being possessed, in a way, except that it never seemed to end.

“Adam,” Ronan’s voice repeated, and the knowledge that he was dreaming did not help Adam to stop. He felt his body jerk nearly fully into consciousness at the sensation of skin on skin; Ronan’s hand, gentle but firm as it shook his shoulder. A wisp of dream remained, tried to drag him back, but then Ronan rolled him over, and he was no longer paralyzed. He sat up in a frenzy, panting loudly, his hands instinctively flexing as he checked to make sure he was in control of his own body.

“That bad, huh?” Ronan murmured, rubbing comforting circles between Adam’s shoulder blades, but it was more of an answer than a question. 

Assured that his body was his own, Adam relaxed slightly into Ronan’s touch. He was sweating and shaky, but Ronan’s hand was sure and steady against him. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” said Adam, trying and failing to keep his tone light. Ronan just shook his head.

“Nah, you didn’t.” The three casual words told a story that Ronan wouldn’t say out loud: he had already been awake; Adam wasn’t alone in his nightmares; it was a bad night all around. He let his thumb graze the nape of Adam’s neck, right at his hairline, and Adam sighed deeply, the sort of sigh that only comes after strenuous activities and traumatic events. His heartbeat was finally regulating itself and returning to a rhythm that passed as normal, but his mind was still reeling. He would not be going back to sleep.

“You wanna talk about it?” The answer was always the same — _hell no_ — but Adam had to ask anyway. When Ronan shook his head, Adam just turned and swung one leg over Ronan’s hips, climbing onto his lap to straddle him. Ronan immediately brought his hands to Adam’s waist and leaned his head against his chest, and Adam just sat his chin atop Ronan’s head and closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around Ronan’s back. There was nothing sexual about their position; it was more emotionally intimate than physically, the act of holding one another to drive away the remnants of a nightmare.

After several long, quiet moments, Ronan tightened his grip on Adam and mumbled something against his chin. His lips brushed over Adam’s skin and Adam felt himself exhale. “What was that?” he murmured in Ronan’s ear, and Ronan tipped his face up and in the direction of Adam’s good ear.

“Wanna go for a drive?” asked Ronan. Adam pressed the lightest of kisses to his temple.

“Of course.”

They pulled on their clothes, shirts and jeans pulled from piles on the floor and half-opened dresser drawers, and then headed outside. It was either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on the type of person that you were, and the air was cool but sticky with the promise of a late spring thunderstorm. The stars were still visible above them, but the moon was nowhere to be seen — _of course it’s a new moon_ , something inside Adam said, _can’t you feel it?_ On the horizon, dark clouds gathered ominously, and as Adam stared into them, he saw a streak of lightning tear them in two.

“Gonna rain,” Ronan said needlessly, slamming the door closed behind him. He paused beside Adam, who was frozen on the top step, and eyed him appraisingly. “You good, Parrish?”

Adam blinked a couple of times and nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped down and crossed the yard, Ronan on his heels, and they both got in the Beemer and buckled in. As soon as Ronan turned his key in the ignition, Adam rolled his window down, and Ronan turned the radio up.

Ronan Lynch was easily the king of shitty electronica, but on his late-night nightmare drives with Adam, he liked to tune into an old classic rock station just to hear Adam sing along with the music. This night was no different; as soon as Adam had his musical bearings, he was joining in with The Doobie Brothers, his tenor mixing with the chorus of _Listen to the Music_ , not unpleasantly. 

The backroads of Singer’s Falls were not particularly well-lit, nor were they trafficked very often. The Beemer’s headlights cut through the darkness, catching on lichen-coated tree trunks and the occasional pair of eyes or antlers on the side of the road. It was a comforting, familiar sight accompanied by comforting, familiar sounds: the roar of the engine, the upbeat drum beats pounding through the stereo, Ronan’s excited intake of breath as he reached a speed entirely uncalled for and terrifying and invigorating all at once. The music transitioned into Cheap Trick’s _I Want You to Want Me_ and Adam turned in his seat to serenade his boyfriend, just to see him smile.

It worked magnificently. In a span of seconds, the corners of Ronan’s mouth quirked upwards, and then his lips were parting, and then he was smiling in that loose and open way that seemed to hint at a Ronan whose parents were not dead, who was not afraid of anything, who had never been hurt. It was a smile that could only be coaxed into the world by Adam and Matthew, and Adam would guard it with his life.

Adam was not watching the road when the rain began, so he could not say if it was gentle at first, but when he finally did notice it, the raindrops were pelting the windshield with the sort of violence that only came in the spring. The wipers were going at double speed, and it was impossible to see much of anything, but Ronan was not stopping or slowing down. The radio station went to commercial and then came back with Creedence Clearwater Revival’s _Have You Ever Seen the Rain?_ and Adam laughed, once, before diving in with his vocals, tapping his hands against the dashboard with open palms to the beat of the song. Beside him, Ronan’s hand left the gearshift to land on Adam’s thigh. It was not a sensual touch so much as just a comforting touch, and Adam stilled one of his hands just to place it atop Ronan’s, to thread their fingers together. Just because he could.

Sometimes, Adam and Ronan had nightmares. Sometimes, Adam was afraid to go to the grocery store because he thought he might see his father. Sometimes, he woke up in the middle of the night to find the sheets coated with nightwash and Ronan frighteningly still. Sometimes, he felt so tired that he thought he might go to sleep and never wake up. Sometimes, things were so ridiculously bad that it didn’t seem possible.

But in that moment, he was just Adam Parrish, sitting in the front seat of Ronan Lynch’s car, wearing Ronan Lynch’s t-shirt, with Ronan Lynch’s hand on his thigh. He was just Adam Parrish, singing along with a song older than he was, flecks of rainwater spraying him through his open window, smiling and laughing and warm inside. He was just Adam Parrish, and it wasn’t just _okay._ It was _glorious._

_I just can't turn my back to you_

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! i hope you liked it!! personally this isn't my _favorite_ thing that i've ever written, but that's okay!! yes, i definitely wrote this instead of writing the next chapters for either of my WIPs. as always, feel free to come interact with me on tumblr, i'm @wespers and i make edits and quizzes and talk to everyone all the time :) also this was not edited as thoroughly as it might have been because it was over 30 pages and i am lazy. my sincerest apologies.


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